


Broken Wings (Eventually)

by sherwoodfox



Series: My Dear [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minas Tirith, Post-Quest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherwoodfox/pseuds/sherwoodfox
Summary: “Are you alright, Sam?” Frodo asked quietly, and Sam opened his mouth to say the same thing he had said to everyone else-yes, of course I’m fine, I’ve been better but I’m doing fine-but the words, for some reason, didn’t make it out all the way, morphing before he knew it on his tongue.“I don’t know,” Sam said to his own surprise, and the magnitude of that truth left him airless for a moment. “I suppose I will be, eventually. What about you?”
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Series: My Dear [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613029
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75





	Broken Wings (Eventually)

When Sam woke, it was to a soft white light that slowly became a familiar face, one that he hadn’t thought he would ever see again.

“Samwise Gamgee,” said Gandalf in a fond, wizardly voice, though this Gandalf was a little different from what he was used to- much brighter and cleaner, with a robe in white instead of grey. 

“Oh,” was all Sam managed, and he found he was in a tremendous room, one that reminded him instantly of Rivendell, as everything was for a person much larger than a hobbit, including the soft bed and luscious pillows Sam was lying upon.

He also found, when his eyes had adjusted, that he felt good- or at least, better than he had in a very long time. Pains upon pains that he had forgotten to distinguish were absent. His hands, when he looked down at them, were clean, and so too felt his entire body and his face and his hair, cleaner than he had been in...how long? It was hard to say. The shock of his awakening began to fade, and as it did so the memories started to come back, layers upon layers of images that left Sam breathless there in the bed. Gandalf said nothing to him- he only watched, a sagely gentleness in his deep blue eyes, until things started to make sense again.

“Its good to see you, Mr. Gandalf,” said Sam, and as he did so he sat himself up in the bed, noticing that though he did feel much better, he was still in a lot of pain- the bones in his legs ached terribly, and the skin of his feet and palms hurt when he moved them, and up his arms there were cuts and bruises that had been wiped free of blood.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Gandalf said, and he laughed a little, a familiar laugh. “And how do you feel?”

“Oh, I’m alright,” Sam replied. “I’ve been better but I’ve been much worse. Say, Mr. Gandalf, am I dead?”

There didn’t seem to be any other way to explain this mysterious white room, and this mysterious white Gandalf, who had fallen in the mines of Moria. But-

“No, you are not,” was what Gandalf said instead. “And neither am I. There is much to tell you, if you are ready to listen.”

Sam thought about this for a moment.

“I suppose so,” he said at length. “But, could I get something to eat first?”

Gandalf laughed, and the smile he wore then went all the way into his eyes, and it was comforting to see such a smile.

Over hours Sam learned of what had transpired in Middle Earth. He learned that the Eagles had carried them away from the mountain and its vicious, liquid fire, back to the marble walls of the human city, Minas Tirith, where all was cool and grand and the night painted everything pale blue. He learned of the battles that had been fought between the rotten legions of Mordor and the brave kingdoms of Man, and of how Strider had become the King, and of how the evil eye in its black tower was no more. He met again Merry and Pippin- dear Merry and Pippin- and cried for what felt like hours to see them well; he learned of what they had done, becoming the vassals of mighty stewards and kings, fighting alongside the brave and beautiful horse-mistress of Rohan and the handsome young warrior, brother to Boromir who had fallen in that long-ago forest. He was told of how the trees had torn apart the keep of the evil wizard, and of how the dead had returned to battle for their honour, and of how the ground had shaken with the fallen bodies of the poor oliphaunts. He saw Legolas and Gimli, the former of which who smiled and the latter who embraced him, and clapped him on the back so hard it hurt. He was told that Legolas would soon be off to prepare a very special surprise- to fetch the King’s elven bride-to-be (who Sam remembered, from that very-long-time-ago that had been Weathertop and Rivendell) in time for his coronation. He learned of many sad things, but of many wonderful things too, happy things of victory and love and the return of light to even the darkest parts of the earth.

And while he was told all of this, he was extremely well-cared for- more so, he found himself thinking, than was deserved. With hearty meal after meal he felt better and better, and the cuts and burns on his skin shrunk and faded, and the aches in his bones gradually went away, and he found his sleeps comforting and deep and dreamless. By both his close friends and strangers passing by he was treated like a hero, though this embarrassed him, and all around there were signs that the world was mending itself- that before long, everything would be just the way it was supposed to be.

Almost everything, that was.

After all, it wasn’t clear yet if Frodo was going to die.

On the day he had woken that had been Sam’s second request- to see Frodo. Even though his legs had still ached and his feet had stung to walk on the marble floor he had let himself be guided to another room, one equally large and well-kept, where Frodo was sleeping.

He hadn’t looked like he was sleeping. He had looked like he was…

“Oh, no, Mr. Frodo,” Sam had murmured, and Gandalf had left him to sit there, perhaps sensing the need to be alone.

It was hard to look at Frodo in a state like this. With all the dirt washed away his wounds became even more apparent, and with the backdrop of the beautiful palace the brutality of it seemed obscene. Grooves as deep as little rivers had been cut into the back of his neck, and all across his chest were burns in tiny perfect circles where the metal of the Ring had adhered- searing- to his flesh. On his shoulder, where he had been stabbed by the cursed blade so long ago, the scar which should have healed had turned blackish underneath, like something in his blood had soured. His arms and legs were just as scraped and bruised and burned as Sam’s were, but he was much more thin, the shadows under his eyes and cheekbones almost equal in their darkness. Indeed, his eyes, which did not open, seemed to have been surrounded by small lakes of blood under his skin, and his lips which had once been so soft were torn so deeply a redness still welled in the cracks.

He did not stir when Sam took his hand- the one that was still intact, that was, for fear of hurting the other. He did not seem to be dreaming, and his breath was so shallow his chest hardly rose, and his skin was cool to the touch.

The first thing Sam had felt seeing this was a moment of shock- had it really been this bad before, how could he not have seen, had his eyes had been clogged with soot?- but that shock had very quickly turned into anger. A deep and terrible anger that made him shake: _how dare anyone do this?_

Of course, it wasn’t like there was anything left to take this anger out on. The Ring was destroyed- Gandalf had confirmed that. The Enemy was gone. All there was to do was recover- if Frodo was going to recover, that was.

“The Ring took him in the end, didn’t it, Sam,” Gandalf had said on that first day, and Sam (though it had seemed shameful to say- it wasn’t Frodo’s fault!) had told him it was so, tried to explain as best he could that moment which had been one of the most horrible in his life: seeing Frodo’s eyes become a shade of blue they never had been before, hearing him speak in a voice that hadn’t sounded like him at all- and worse than all of this, the very faintest little smile just before he had disappeared, a _wicked_ smile which Frodo, who was pure and sweet and _good,_ should never have worn.

Gandalf had only sighed, and Sam had been surprised and relieved when the judgement he had been expecting hadn’t come, and all the wizard had said was this:

“Then we’ve done the most we can for him. If he will wake, it will be on his own strength.”

And hadn’t that been a frightening thing to hear?

One week after having been plucked from the top of the mountain- after everything had been explained, after Sam had told of their journey, and everyone knew what had become of one another- Sam returned to Frodo’s room (as he had every day) to sit with him, and hold his hand. As always, he did not stir.

“And how are you today, me dearie?” Sam murmured, rubbing his thumb over the back of Frodo’s knuckles, which if nothing else seemed a little less dry than before. “Let’s see…”

But Frodo’s wounds were not healing, not like Sam’s were. The ones on his neck were especially raw. Sam always checked- careful not to actually touch, for fear of opening them again- but day to day there seemed to be no change. Maybe it was because he hadn’t yet woke, having no chance to eat anything to get his strength up, or…

Sam looked at Frodo’s face now. He was still too beautiful, but Sam’s heart hurt to look at him, because to see that pale skin so marred was to remember when it had been whole.

“Do you remember the Midsummer festival, Frodo?” Sam said softly. “The one the year before Mr. Bilbo left for Rivendell. The morning was cloudy, but it cheered up for the evening, and everyone was so glad.”

Frodo did nothing; Sam tucked a lock of dark hair behind one of his elvish ears, one of the few places he somehow hadn’t been scraped or cut.

“You were wearing blue- a kind of midnight blue, with some white, and one of the fauntlings had put flowers in your hair. I don’t think you saw me, but I saw you, and you were the loveliest thing in the whole Shire, Mr. Frodo.”

Thinking of this, Sam thought for a moment he might cry, and then he remembered something else- Rivendell, another time when Frodo had been sick and cold, and something had helped then, hadn’t it? It had been the first time…

Leaning in, no longer afraid to do so, Sam kissed Frodo’s cracked lips very gently. He had been able to kiss him many times on their journey- only one good thing, maybe, to come about from all this, but a very good thing indeed. But this time, Frodo didn’t seem to feel it.

“Frodo,” Sam whispered, and he kissed him again, and again, on his lips and cheeks and nose, showering him in it the way he loved most. But Frodo didn’t stir, not the way he always had before. His eyelids didn’t even flicker, and when the flood of Sam’s affection petered out it was like nothing had happened at all. Sam’s heart ached.

“Please don’t leave me like this,” he whispered, the image of Frodo’s empty face blurring behind hot tears. “Please come back, love.”

That night, Sam felt despondent even during the lovely meal he and the other hobbits were served, and he went to bed with a heavy heart- it seemed that the chances were slipping away, going somewhere he couldn’t reach, and that wasn’t fair. They had made it all the way there, and at least part way back again- the quest was _over,_ they had won! Frodo couldn’t die now, not when all Sam had with him had been in worlds of grey and black and red, places where everything was painful. He wanted to take Frodo back to the Shire, to see the green hilltops in spring, taste again the fresh strawberries and cream. He wanted to give Frodo a flower, in the foolish way he had always imagined as a lad, and now he would do it without shame because shame meant nothing after suffering so much.

Thinking these painful things, Sam didn’t sleep very well. All his dreams were muddled, and he couldn’t get comfortable even though the bed itself was very comfortable indeed, and soon he found himself unable to lie still at all. It was one of those nights where it wasn’t even easy to close his eyes, and the gray stone ceiling of his room in the castle was not especially interesting to look at.

It was a little after midnight when Sam finally gave up on sleeping. The bed had become uncomfortably hot, so he rolled out of it, putting on a jacket over his soft nightwear so he wouldn’t be cold. He could say to himself, on the surface level of his thoughts, that he should go for a walk to tire himself out- but he knew that what he was really going to do was see Frodo.

Sam closed the door to his room behind him very carefully, so the wood made no noise, and crossed the corridor to Frodo’s- strangely, the door to _his_ room was slightly ajar, though there was no reason for that. Had someone been careless? Sam frowned to himself as he went in, because no one should be careless with his Mr. Frodo-

-but with one look at the bed, Sam saw that Frodo was gone.

His heart started beating faster immediately, an irrational fear rising inside, because every time he had fallen asleep on the journey he had been afraid that Frodo would vanish; he had started to look like he was made of glass, so fragile the wind could have crumbled him to dust, and Sam had always been so scared for him. This was too much like so many of his nightmares.

Sam checked the bed carefully first, standing up on tiptoe on both sides in case Frodo was somehow hiding between creases in the silk, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t under the bed, either, nor in the closet nor on the floor, having perhaps rolled out of bed in a bad dream. He was completely gone, and the place where he had been lying wasn’t even warm anymore.

Sam left the room in something like a panic. The stone floors were so cold under his feet, the corridors so quiet with the deep of the night, it felt like he was in another world, the only sound his own heavy breathing. On instinct, he chose ‘left’, and took off running down the corridor in that direction, his eyes wide and searching every shadow born from the moonlight that trickled in the windows.

If he had been thinking clearer, he might have called Frodo’s name, might have gone to Gandalf’s room to ask him for help, but he wasn’t rational just then. He felt like he was back in Mordor, in a place where he couldn’t cry out in case he was heard and couldn’t reach for anyone because he was all alone. He was all alone, and he had lost Frodo-!

At the end of the corridor he reached a place where he could turn left or right, or continue forward down a curving staircase which was bathed in the brightest white moonlight, and for some reason Sam knew he had to take the stairs. Heart high in his ears he ran down them two at a time, uncaring if he might fall, if the sore bones in his feet ached with the impact of each heel, because he had become more than used to ignoring his own pain. He made it around a bend in the staircase, and then…

...and then he found him.

Frodo looked back at him, his blue eyes huge and glowing in the light. He was wearing only his night clothing, which was too big, slipping off one shoulder to show all the bones in his neck and back and collar, rising out of his skin with every breath. His injured hand was on the banister, the other up to his chest, clutching the fabric there in a bunch like he was using it to hold himself together. Under the moon like this, every contrast seemed so much harsher, the shadows that were his blood under his skin looked blacker than ever, the scars around his neck and the cuts in his lips so much redder, the white of his skin brighter than it was under the sun. For a moment, the two hobbits only stared at each other, Sam catching his breath, and the look in Frodo’s huge eyes slowly shifted from emptiness to recognition.

“Sam,” he said softly, and that single word brought such relief to Sam that his eyes filled, and he almost began crying then and there.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo,” he said, “You’re awake at last!”

Frodo didn’t say anything to that, so Sam made his way down the last few steps that separated them, taking Frodo into a gentle (but very passionate) embrace. Frodo felt very small in his arms, and equally cold; now, Sam could tell that he was trembling.

“Where are we, Sam?” Frodo asked quietly, the undertones of his voice scraped and raw. “Are we dead?”

Sam pulled back enough to kiss Frodo on both cheeks before answering, hoping that the warmth of his touch would be reassuring.

“Not dead, no,” he said. “We’re in Minas Tirith, the city of Men. It’s over, Frodo-love, you did it! You’re _safe_ now.”

Frodo just looked at him, he didn’t seem to understand, and his breathing was very shallow.

“The Ring,” he said, like it was the only thing he could think of, and Sam shook his head.

“It’s gone. It was destroyed. Fell into the lake of fire...don’t you remember?”

Frodo looked at him blankly a moment more, and then his eyelids fluttered closed. Sam took both his chilled hands in his own and kissed them, and even though he had seen it over and over he still found himself shocked at how _broken_ Frodo looked. Sam had been getting better, but Frodo was the same as he had been on that mountain, and in comparison to the sweet and clever gentlehobbit Sam remembered from the Shire, this Frodo was...shattered.

“I remember,” he said. “Are you sure...we’re not dead?”

Sam shook his head again, the assurances that fell from his lips practically mindless, and he tried to touch Frodo everywhere- brushing his hair from his eyes and tucking it behind his ears, adjusting his clothes and rubbing his trembling back. It was like Frodo was a small bird that had landed with a broken wing, and Sam was trying to let him know he’d be alright. But would he, though? A bird with a broken wing would never fly again, it would wither and starve and long for the sky which had been forever taken from it-

-Sam forced his thoughts to stop right there, and kissed Frodo on the lips again, to reassure himself as much as anything. Frodo was still cold, and he still didn’t look like he knew entirely where he was, and it was the middle of the night, anyway! Sam wasn’t doing any good fretting over him like that, he needed to pull himself together. If his Frodo needed some taking care of, that was fine, as long as he would get better.

“Come on, let’s get you back to bed,” Sam said encouragingly, wrapping one arm around Frodo’s shoulders to steer him back up the stairs, trying to ignore how sharp his bones felt through his nightwear. “In the morning, there’ll be a good breakfast, and everything will be explained.”

Frodo didn’t say anything, and Sam wasn’t sure if he had heard. He could see from the corners of his own eyes how Frodo’s wide ones darted back and forth, catching on the shadows in the stone walls. If he was seeing what was really there, or something else, Sam couldn’t say.

When they made it back to Frodo’s room Sam shut the door tight, to ward off any echoing sounds and unwelcome shadows, and helped Frodo back into the bed.

“Don’t go,” Frodo said weakly when he was on the mattress, still holding Sam’s hand.

“Wasn’t planning to, me dearie,” Sam said, and Frodo sighed. Sam climbed into the other side of the bed, peeling back the gratuitous covers, and in spite of himself he smiled.

“This is a little like Rivendell, don’t you think?” he said. “Us hobbits in far too big a bed…”

It was even more like Rivendell, Sam supposed, because Frodo was sick. Why did it always have to turn out that way? At every leg of their journey, Frodo had been the one getting stabbed or snatched or poisoned or bitten, or, or...anything. _Driven mad by the evil thing around his neck._ It was like the world had seen how flawless his white skin had been, and decided that wasn’t fair, that he should be given all the scars to make up for it.

“Rivendell,” Frodo said flatly, and for a moment it looked like he didn’t remember, until the dull wall in his eyes melted. “...that’s right. That...was so long ago, Sam…”

Sam fluffed his pillow and wrapped him in the blankets until it looked like he was drowning in them, curled around his own body like a baby, only the tips of his ears and his huge blue eyes peeking out.

“Well, I remember it alright,” Sam said, and he settled himself down too, with no question of whether it was right or proper for him to spend the night in Frodo’s bed. That kind of worry had fallen by the roadside ages ago, between the cold nights and colder days of their journey, after those first kisses when Frodo had made it clear that any kiss was welcome, any time, as long as it was Sam’s.

Frodo reached out from under the blankets and took hold of Sam’s shirt, pulling him over until they were sharing the same pillow as well as the same bed, and Frodo could hide in the space beneath Sam’s chin. He was still shivering, only a little less so.

“You’re so warm, Sam,” Frodo whispered, and Sam hugged him again as seemed the right thing to do, feeling the ice of Frodo’s fingers against his belly and not minding them one bit. “You’re always warm.”

Sam didn’t know what to say to that- _thank you, you’re welcome?-_ but as it turned out he didn’t need to say anything, because within a moment of this Frodo had fallen back asleep, his breathing slowing until Sam had to concentrate very deeply to feel it, the leftover tension in his limbs melting away.

 _You’ll be alright,_ Sam told him silently, though as much as he was telling this to Frodo he was telling it to himself, and sending it outwards as a prayer for anything that might be listening. He couldn’t bear it, if Frodo’s wings were really broken, if he would never fly again. He didn’t deserve that. After all of this, a happy ending was needed, wasn’t it? Like in the stories old Mr. Bilbo used to tell. Sam wanted to tell this story too, the story of the greatest quest taken on by anyone in the Shire, and he desperately didn’t want to end it poorly.

He wanted to say that the hero lived, and that he smiled again.

Sam pressed his face into Frodo’s dark hair, inhaling and feeling like he might cry, for Frodo didn’t smell anything like he used to- not like Bag End, with its summer flowers and fresh ink and old parchment. Now, Frodo smelled like ash and burning rock, and even if that was to be expected it broke Sam’s heart a little anyway.

But having Frodo safe in his arms tied fresh weights to his eyelids, and with his mind full of these miserable things he slipped away to sleep.

The next day, after Sam went to get breakfast, Frodo woke again- this time in sunshine, this time for everyone to see. Sam was overwhelmingly glad. It had been a small fear in his mind that the night previous had been an anomaly, and that Frodo wouldn’t rise in the morning. But in the light of day everything seemed better, even Frodo himself, who spoke more clearly and did not tremble so terribly. So Sam let the others rejoice with him, his cousins and his many friends, those who- Sam was sure- had feared what would become of him just as much.

“Did I wake last night, Sam?” Frodo asked once some of the cheer had settled down, and Sam told him that he had. “I see. I thought that was a bad dream.”

Frodo looked at Sam then in a way he hadn’t looked at anyone else that morning. The blue of his eyes was clear, but there was something _horrible_ in them, something dark and painful and all-consuming. Sam knew what it was, because he had seen it before, and felt it too, within himself. Frodo looked at Sam like this for just a moment, just long enough for them to see it in each other, and then his eyes slipped closed like the effort of leaving them open had become too much.

“You woke Sam up last night?” said Merry, his voice suddenly almost too loud for the room. “Now, honestly, Frodo- you’re both recovering! Wake one of us instead, let the poor fellow get his sleep!”

Frodo cracked one eye open to look at Merry (and Pippin, ever beside him), putting on the sweet-but-tired smile he had been wearing all morning, the one which Sam now saw might not be entirely genuine. “Well, I suppose you’re right...”

“No need,” Sam said, interrupting him. “I’ll be here for you, Frodo. I don’t mind a bit.”

It was more than that, of course. Sam didn’t think any ill of Frodo’s cousins, they were heroes themselves and had experienced many terrible things, but if they were to see what Sam had seen last night- what Sam had seen over and over again on the journey- would _they_ really be alright? He couldn’t say.

“Well, I guess you two have always been inseparable,” Merry said. “No sense trying to change that _now_.”

Frodo laughed a little at that, everyone did, and the day went on.

All the stories were told again, save Frodo’s, for he only sat and listened, attentive and insistent even when he was told he should rest. He ate less than everyone wanted him to, and bled a little more, when moving cracked open the tender scabs that had only barely formed on some of the worst of his wounds. He didn’t look at Sam that way again.

The day was bright and lively, and soon it seemed there was no more doubt about the state of Frodo’s heart- it would keep beating, at the very least. And so, everyone was happy.

That night it was late when all set to retire, and Sam accompanied Frodo to his room by candlelight, for the moon was just a little too frightening. Frodo stopped by his door though, biting his lower lip, and gently he took Sam’s free hand.

“Can we stay in your room, tonight?” he asked softly. “I would rather...well...”

“Of course,” Sam said easily, even though his face warmed.

“Good,” Frodo said, and he smiled a little, a smile that looked much weaker and more painful than any of those he had been showing their friends. “I’ll just get my nightclothes.” 

He disappeared for less than a minute, but Sam still waited in the corridor with baited breath. He didn’t know if he would ever stop fearing that Frodo would vanish.

When they were both in bed again Sam left the candle burning, because everything looked a little nicer- a little _healthier_ \- in an orange light. They lay facing each other, fingers only slightly intertwined, and for a moment it was enough just to look. The dark thing was still there, of course, swimming in Frodo’s eyes, as well as understanding.

“Are you alright, Sam?” Frodo asked quietly, and Sam opened his mouth to say the same thing he had said to everyone else- _yes, of course I’m fine, I’ve been better but I’m doing fine-_ but the words, for some reason, didn’t make it out all the way, morphing before he knew it on his tongue.

“I don’t know,” Sam said to his own surprise, and the magnitude of that truth left him airless for a moment. “I suppose I will be, eventually. What about you?”

Frodo was silent, and Sam saw him swallow under the bruises around his throat, and on instinct he tightened his grip on Frodo’s hand.

“Not at all, Sam,” Frodo whispered, and it sounded like the worst secret in the world. “I’m not alright at all. Do you think I will be? Eventually? Ever again?”

“You will be,” Sam said firmly, even though he didn’t know if it was true or not. “Of course you will be. I’ll be here, and I’ll make sure you are.”

Frodo blinked slowly when he said that, and tears got caught in his eyelashes, hovering there like little jewels. Then he smiled, a feeble and watery smile, but it went all the way into his eyes the way the other ones hadn’t, and that meant something.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll do the same for you. I promise, Sam.”

Sam was halfway about to protest, because Frodo was in a state much worse than he was, but nothing made it past his lips because Frodo kissed them. It was a lingering kiss, wet with tears which could have been from either of them, and fell apart with a sigh.

“I love you,” Frodo murmured, and he was asleep before Sam had the chance to say it back.

“I love you too,” he said anyway, and let himself close his eyes, for they had begun to ache. He kept one hand firm about Frodo’s wrist, however, just to make sure.

But before he let himself slip away he steeled his resolve. It didn’t matter how long it took, or how difficult it became, he would make sure that Frodo’s wings were healed. Honestly, he would make him new ones from scratch if that was what it took. As long as they were together, they’d both find a way to be alright.

Eventually.


End file.
